our roots have pages, (and they're dog-eared).

jeremy and i like to play the 'what would you grab if you had a limited amount of time to get out of the house' game. usually we just say each other. and the rats though i'm pretty sure they could chew their way out through the window. they've done it before.

truthfully, the thing of most collective value in our humble abode is our book collection which, as irony and pending superhuman strength would have it, is also the heaviest and most impractical collection of things to attempt to salvage in an emergency situation.

maybe our place would burn quickest with such bountiful access to paper. maybe the fire would read everything in one giant, ravenous gulp.

if having stuff tethers you to a place, keeps you from leaving in the middle of the night, (or early in the morning if that's more your thing), then it's certainly the books that keep us firmly planted here.

in addition to our own collection a series of foster books can, at any one time, be found mingling with our nuclear family of books. books from the library, books borrowed from friends, books kept for a brief time and then put back into the rich, collective stream of shared stories.

sometimes i want to roll around in books. sometimes i do. sometimes it feels as though that's just what reading is, a delicious and full-force frolic between a front cover and a back.